You were Never meant for Glass
back then, i wrote about a butterfly i kept inside a jar—fragile, trembling,
a piece of beauty i was too afraid to lose.
i called it love,
though maybe it was only fear
dressed in gentleness.
and now, i write the continuation.
because this time,
i lifted the lid.
the air came rushing in,
soft as a whisper,
and for a moment, the world calm—
as if even the wind waited
to see what you would do.
you didn’t fly, not right away.
you lingered, wings uncertain,
as though the sky itself
felt too wide to trust.
and i stood there,
heart trembling in my chest,
wondering if freedom would break me,
or finally set me right.
then you moved—
slowly, gracefully—
a quiet kind of goodbye
that didn’t need to be spoken.
and i let you.
the jar remains,
its lid still open,
as if waiting.
but i know now—
you were never meant to live
in something made of glass.
because love that’s real
cannot survive behind walls,
and even the most careful hands
can still cause wings to shatter.
so i left it there,
open and empty,
a reminder that sometimes,
letting go
is the only way
to love gently.
